“I’m sorry, Averell, but my mind is made up. That’s the way it’s got to be for now.” He looked at Reilly. “Mike, pour us some of Sir Whatshisname’s scotch, will you? I’m sure we could all use a drink.”
Roosevelt surveyed his drink thoughtfully. “I wish Churchill could reconcile himself to this.” He sipped some of the British ambassador’s whiskey. “Averell? Did he say what he’s doing tonight?”
“He said he planned to make it an early night and read a novel by Charles Dickens, Mr. President.”
“We need to work on Churchill again,” Roosevelt said.
“He’ll come around, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt nodded and, catching my frown, smiled wryly. “Willard. Chip. I guess you boys are wondering what in hell this is all about?”
“It had crossed my mind, sir.”
Bohlen just nodded.
“All will become very clear to you both tomorrow morning,” said Roosevelt. “Until then, I must ask for your indulgence. If ever there was a time in which the president of the United States needed the full confidence and support of the people around him, that time is now, gentlemen. Great risks are involved, but great rewards are to be had.”
“Whatever it takes, Mr. President,” said Bohlen.
“We’re a team, now,” added Roosevelt. “I just wanted to make sure you boys understood that.”
“You have our total support, sir,” I added.
“All right, gentlemen, that’ll do for now.”
We’d been dismissed. I finished my scotch hurriedly and followed Reilly into the hallway, where he handed me an official-looking document.
“‘The Espionage Act, 1917,’” I said, reading the cover. “What’s this, Mike? A little light bedtime reading?”
“I’d like you both to familiarize yourselves with the contents of this document before tomorrow morning,” he said. “It relates to the disclosure of non-security-related government information.”
I said nothing. The Democrat in me wanted to remind the Secret Service agent that the United States had no official secrets act for the simple reason that the First Amendment of the Constitution guaranteed free speech. But, feeling I had perhaps caused enough trouble already, I decided to let it alone.
“What the hell is this, Mike?” Bohlen asked.
“Look,” said Reilly, “the president is pretty worked up about secrecy on this mission. You can understand that, can’t you? That’s why he wanted you along to this meeting. So you could see that for yourself. And so that you might realize that you are an important part of this team.”
I shrugged. “Sure,” I said.
Bohlen nodded.
“The administration has taken legal advice, and all we’re asking is that you both sign a document saying you’re aware of the need for secrecy, that’s all.”
“What do you mean, legal advice?” asked Bohlen.
“Three Supreme Court judges have ruled, in private, that the Espionage Act doesn’t just cover spying. It also covers leaks of government information to someone other than an enemy, such as a newspaper or magazine.”
“You’re trying to gag us?” said Bohlen. “I don’t believe it.”
“No, not gag. Not at all. This is merely to make you aware of the possible consequences of speaking about what might go on while we’re here in Teheran. All we’re asking is that you sign an affidavit after you’ve read this thing, just to indicate that you appreciate the full meaning of the act.”
“What about our legal advice, Mike?” I asked.
“I think this is illegal,” Bohlen objected, smiling nervously.
“I’m not a lawyer. Not anymore. I couldn’t tell you what is and what’s not illegal here. All I know is that the boss wants everyone who’s involved in our effort here to sign this. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise what, Mike?” Bohlen asked, coloring visibly around his prominent ears.
Reilly thought for a moment. “Stalin’s translator,” he said, then snapped his fingers at Bohlen. “What’s his name?”
“There are two. Pavlov and Berezhkov.”
“And what do you think would happen to them if they said anything out of line?”
Bohlen and Willard remained silent.
“They’d be shot,” said Reilly, answering his own question. “I don’t think they’re in any doubt about that.”
“What’s your point, Mike?” Bohlen asked.
“Only that it would be a shame if they ended up having to do all of the translations because the president couldn’t find anyone he trusted, that’s all.”
“Of course the president can trust us, Mike,” I said. “We’re just a little surprised that you want us to sign a piece of paper to that effect.”
“I know I can trust you, Professor,” Reilly said, with extra meaning. “We have to go back to Cairo after Teheran, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to have to speak to the British police again about that unfortunate incident in Garden City.”
It was my turn to feel the color enter my ears. There were no two ways about it. I was being blackmailed into toeing the line.
“Professor, why don’t you have a word with Chip,” Reilly said smoothly, “and point out the expediency of what’s being proposed?”
Reilly walked away to have a word with Pawlikowski, leaving an exasperated-looking Bohlen alone with me.
“We just got tackled by our own offensive linemen,” I said.
Bohlen nodded. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “But whatever it is, I could sure use another glass of Sir Reader Bullard’s scotch.”
XXV
After leaving the carpet factory in the bazaar, Ebtehaj had taken North Team to a house in Abassi Street, where Oster, having refined his new plan still further, left all but five of his men there with orders to wait until dark and then try to make their way out of the city and across the border into Turkey. Oster had decided that what was now required was a small commando team of no more than half a dozen men, and after a few emotional good-byes, he, Schoellhorn, Unterturmfuhrers Schnabel and Shkvarzev, and three other Ukrainians were driven to a pistachio farm northeast of the city.
At the celebrated court of Queen Belghais of Sheba, pistachios were a delicacy for royalty and the privileged elite. Luckily for Captain Oster and his men, Iranian pistachios were no longer the preserve of the wealthy, but popular throughout the country. Jomat Abdoli was one of the largest wholesalers of pistachios in Iran, and farmers from all over the major pistachio-producing provinces sold their crops to him. He roasted and stored them at a facility in Eshtejariyeh, to the northeast of the city. Jomat hated the British. When Ebtehaj, the wrestler, had come to him asking that he hide some Germans, Jomat said he was only too willing to help.
Ebtehaj, Schoellhorn, Oster, Schnabel, and the three others had been sleeping in the main storehouse and had just finished a traditional Iranian breakfast of tea, boiled eggs, salted cheese, yogurt, and unleavened bread when news reached them that a truck carrying Russian troops had been sighted at the foot of the hill leading up to Jomat’s warehouse. Shkvarzev reached for his Russian-made PPSh41 submachine gun. Neither Jomat nor any of the six men at the pistachio warehouse were aware that everyone back at the house in Abassi Street had now been shot resisting arrest. Oster had no idea that they had been discovered. Had he known, he might have assumed that it was their turn next and acquiesced with the Ukrainian officers’ desire to shoot it out.
“No,” he told Shkvarzev, “we wouldn’t stand a chance.” Then he said to Jomat, “Can we hide somewhere?”
Jomat was already picking up a pile of empty sacks. “Follow me,” he said and led them through the main storehouse and the roasting shed into an empty brick silo. “Lie on the floor, and cover yourselves with the sacks,” he told them. As soon as they had done so, he tugged a metal chute over the silo and then pulled open a feeder drawer so that the silo was filled with half a ton of smooth, purple, recently harvested pistachios.